Into Oblivion
by sleapyGazelle
Summary: Shiro is back after 54 days in the astral plane. But despite being among friends, his arm is a constant reminder of pain. A remix of rainingWolf's fic "Acceptance." Hers was from Allura's POV, and I've retold the story from Shiro's. I also tried to write a story without dialogue, since those are always interesting. Mild shallura at the end.


He lies in bed, the twin size barely enough to hold his broad frame. Yet after nearly two months of sleeping on nothingness, it feels luxurious. After fifty-four days of silence so absolute that his own thoughts were deafening, the little sounds of life around him prickle his ears: the gentle hum of the generators, the occasional squeak of a mouse, the distant clatter of cutlery, the odd trickle of laughter…. He sighs, just because he can, the sound alerting him to his own presence. Apparently that sound also awakens the hand, because it glows.

A blur. A flash of movement in his peripheral vision, and he is being choked by the Galra addition, the arm attached to it betraying him.

It's the gasp for air that wakes him, a fine sheen of sweat coating his skin as he sits up in bed, heat coming off him in waves. Instinctively, he makes to run his hands over his face; but centimeters before metal can touch skin, his features twist in disgust. He doesn't have _hands_ —not anymore. He has _a_ hand on one side and an alien contraption on the other.

He screams in his own head because that's better than everyone hearing him. He grips _it_ with his left hand and yanks, _pulls_. But Galra metal is stronger than flesh and bone. It doesn't budge.

He summons the stubborn will of the Champion and tugs again. It snaps off, with sparks he feels rather than sees, and flies across the room, clattering against the far wall before dropping like a dead weight to the ground. He aggressively whisks the lingering feel of it off his stump, severed nerves sending angry jolts up to his shoulder. He ignores the pain—tries to—just like he ignores the ugly scars that gather at the stump. Falling back down and rolling over to a relatively cool spot on the sheets, he finally drifts off, mind at ease now with the enemy finally out of his bed.

* * *

A night of dreamless sleep behind him, he rolls out of bed, brain sending synapses down his arm out of habit. When there's no hand to respond to the signal to stretch, his mind wakes up to the ever-present pain.

With a grunt—half of pain and half of effort—he gets up. When his brain tries to get him to open the door with a hand that isn't there, his eyes sneak a look at the discarded piece of technology—of weaponry. Muttering about how stupid the situation is, he walks over and picks it up.

A touch of cool metal against his hand. Flashes of white in his vision. The hand.

It's attached again, secure, radiating anger against him for the separation. It's inanimate, so how is it angry...he shouldn't...be allowing this…. That's when it all goes to hell.

He remains where he stands, but his teammates flash in front of him—almost corporeal. And _the hand_ , glowing a purple so bright it's almost white, slices through them all, one, by, one. Severed limbs sizzle tendrils of smoke as the defenders of the universe crumble, lifeless, before him—by his hand.

With an anguished yell that makes it past his vocal chords this time, he sits up in bed. In bed…. It was a dream. Again. He feels an itch and scratches at nothing. His hand is still gone. He glances across the room. _It_ is still lying there, innocent and unassuming.

No longer certain if he's still awake, he gets out of bed, eyeing it suspiciously. _Enough of this._ He bounds over, grabs it, and heads out the door toward the room next to the kitchen where he's seen the Helmsman of the Castleship put the trash.

The metal in his hand warms by a degree, as if offended by his intent. A memory of his dream—of destruction—surfaces before his eyes, and he beats it back into oblivion.

As he walks, it vaguely occurs to him that no one is out and about. The rooms must be soundproof then for his screams not to have woken anyone. If he had known that before, he wouldn't have stifled himself all these days.

He reaches the compactor. He throws it in. He wrests back control.

* * *

The Princess. He can tell it's her by the gentle yet commanding way she knocks. His right arm reaches for the door before his eyes register the absence of the hand.

He will get used to it.

He opens the door with his left. The Princess. She has brought it back, cradled in her arms like it's something precious instead of an abomination.

He falls back. He says no.

She presses forward.

He grips her wrist, trying to make her _see_. He needs her to see; she's the only one who _can_.

But she is like the cold metal he tried in vain to discard—unyielding.

He looks into purple pupils surrounded by turquoise irises that should be uncanny but instead are comforting.

He looks into her eyes, and surrenders control.


End file.
